


Hide and Seek

by Elandil



Category: Original Work
Genre: Found this on my hard drive, Mystery, POV Second Person, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:41:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26046703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elandil/pseuds/Elandil
Summary: It’s the ticking of the old grandfather clock that starts it all...





	Hide and Seek

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: An only flash fiction piece I wrote for my degree, thought I'd share it on here.

It’s the ticking of the old grandfather clock that starts it all, a series of short, sharp clicks that cut through the calm. A normal sound; soothing, expected.

It takes a while for you to move at first, the room is cold against your skin. It takes time, but eventually the heavy door yields beneath small hands with a hollow groan. Cold wood meets bare feet which shy away for only a moment before pushing on, away from the dark room and into the light.

The panels are old, old, old as the house, old as maybe even the whole world, but they still shine. They are polished every week, and it turns the hard wood into ice beneath stocking feet. Time seems to slow down as you go rushing past, but it always ends. The old grandfather clock in the hall will never be the same again, its two hands long since frozen in place, blood smeared streaks bright on the casing.

Down the panelled corridor and to the left, a giant frame holds two veiled watchers. Their disapproving glances frozen in place, never changing, though four eyes track every move you make. Care must always be taken when passing by, but it doesn't help. They never smile.

Further down and the ground falls away to a sweeping stare case, sometimes gleaming in the light from the open door (these are the good days) but most often dark. The cold seems to linger here more than in any other place in the house. In other rooms it just sits there, in here it breeds.

It doesn't want to leave.

Scattered on the black smudged marble, boxes lie abandoned, both opened and sealed. People used to bring them, many of them, all through the front door. In those times there would be light, and the cold would hide, but they never stayed for long. They would always leave.

Sometimes, though, they would leave the boxes behind, shadowed towers on the stair case.

Occasionally, when the sky cries, and the cold goes on the prowl, the boxes break. They rip themselves open and the spill their burdens between them on the steps. But you don't look.

“ _It's rude to pry_.”

In the corner, by the front door, there sits another one, a special one. Covered in leaves and climbing vines, you can only find it if you know where to look.

“ _It's a secret_!”

Through this door is a small room, and in there the cold can't find you. The only light comes from the happy flames playing in the grate, (but it’s okay, the darkness doesn't come in here.) Beside them sits the old chair, padded and worn. It’s brown, but that's run through with black. It looks torn but it’s not. In it sits the old man with the stories and the big grin, but you have to be quiet 'cause he's asleep. “ _It's rude to wake people_ ,” even if it’s boring when they don't move.

Being quiet is hard though, and the room is soon left behind.

The house is big. Big enough to run in. Big enough to hide in. So big that you can run around for hours and never be in the same place twice. No one can find you here.

There used to be people, lots of people. Everywhere. But they all left. Now there's only the watchers and the old man. And you... And the bird in the kitchen. His name is Sam.

All down the empty halls are doors. Doors that lead to kingdoms in faraway lands, where they are fighting dragons, and doors that lead to lost temples filled with dangers. Some of them are only half there, the edges blackened and cracked. The dragons had got them.

Some of them however, don't open at all, and it is these that are the most interesting. Maybe they keep a Princess locked away, waiting to be rescued at the top of her tall tower? Maybe they are the cage for a pack of wolves? But they all give off the feel of cold, and are soon left deserted.

They wouldn't open anyway.

At the end of one corridor, (the longest walk from anywhere!) there is always a spot of light that creeps across the floor. It escapes through an empty hole. A room without a door.

Inside is a huge cavern, its walls covered in swirling black, and its floor covered in mounds of grey powder. It might be snow, but it isn't cold. The room is, but the not-snow isn’t. It's soft though, and fun to run in, flying everywhere. Half buried in the powder are scraps of paper, all torn and old-looking. Maybe one of them is a map to a pirate's hidden treasure? Perhaps all of them are? It's too late to see though, the light is fading, scared away by the darkness in the windows.

It's not surprising; the darkness always gets its way. It follows you, chasing you everywhere and making the cold stronger, strong enough to grab you, and never let you go. So you run.

The only safe place is the secret room; with the door closed you can hide. But the door doesn't close... it won’t move!

The fire is still in its place, but it’s smaller now. The darkness is closing in, sneaking around the edges of the room. The cold waits in its shadows. But... there! Behind the old man lays a stack of old wood. It can help.

It does help. The flames slowly start to fight back and they grow bigger and bigger. It's too bright to look, but the darkness still lingers, hiding behind the old man, and in the corners of the room. More wood goes in.

The darkness is gone now. You can breathe... but you can't. Something pushes down as you gasp. It hurts, and the darkness is returning. It bleeds out of everything, a thick black cloud... and you can't breathe. The fire doesn't help.

Hidden in the dark room you're not supposed to be found. But the darkness always finds you.

.

.

.

It’s the ticking of the old grandfather clock that starts it all...


End file.
